


could it be the providence was leading you astray?

by tomatoconveniencestore



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Eliot faces his worst fears, Fix-It, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, and prepares to get his life back, eats some takeaway, friends who quest together stay together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-30
Updated: 2019-04-30
Packaged: 2020-02-10 12:25:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18660409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomatoconveniencestore/pseuds/tomatoconveniencestore
Summary: “Charlton, I’ll need you to focus. Operation incapacitate the Monster with my own emotions is a go,” Eliot says, elegantly putting the book back on its shelf. He rolls up his sleeves, dramatically tightens his tie, and heads towards the doorway.“What are you going to do?” Charlton scrambles up from the floor, decidedly alarmed.“My worst fear,” Eliot says, rolling his eyes as if the answer should have been obvious. “I can show it my worst fear.”---The last time Eliot’s managed to overpower the Monster, it was through the power of his worst memory. So, he figures, wouldn’t it be even better to show it his worst fear?





	could it be the providence was leading you astray?

**Author's Note:**

> Two weeks since the finale and I’m still struggling to let things go. This fic started out of a place of frustration and wanting to write something random and self-indulgent, but actually turned out to be hugely therapeutic. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive The Magicians for the emotional whiplash they’ve put us through, but fact of the matter is that I still really love these characters. And after spending hours with them, writing this, I can now at least feel like I’ve given them a more satisfying conclusion.

Eliot’s never been much of a reader before coming to The Happy Place. Sure, he’s read a fair share of tabloids, textbooks, and awkward erotica in his lifetime, but generally, he is always quite content to let his friends carry out the reading portion of this or that quest.

Being stuck in a hypothetical mind-loop cottage that is gradually falling apart, however, swiftly makes him reconsider his pastimes. The very first days, he busies himself with practising some lower level spells that have mostly slipped his mind, talking to Charlton about his opinions on modern fashion, or daydreaming about the perfect opening monologue he’d perform after escaping his current prison. At one point, he casts imaginary projections of his friends in a number of highly-moving scenes from his favourite movies. If nothing else, he reasons, he now knows he would make a great director.

Nevertheless, Eliot quickly grows bored and frustrated with his predicament. And, with Charlton refusing to grasp the rules to even the most basic party games, Eliot finds himself suddenly contemplating the possibility of –  _ reading for fun _ .

Unlike the real Physical Kids’ Cottage, his imaginary variant has no shortage of reading material. And the books themselves are far from the asinine literary babble that he’s accustomed to from his Earth days. None of them are books published by actual authors, they keep appearing and disappearing at random, and some days the content itself changes depending on Eliot’s mood. It would all be a very frustrating affair if not for the fact that Eliot soon realises the books can help him escape.

They don’t track his memories, per se, nor are they diary entries spanning his tragically upended life. Rather, they are thoughts and figments of Eliot’s imagination, plots that involve some of his memories, or essays written about a question he’d asked himself years ago. Some of them make him hopeful, some of them make him almost weep with frustration, and some of them are so dark and twisted Eliot knows they couldn’t come from his own mind. 

*** 

“Fuck this,” Eliot says at one point, stabbing his finger into a short leather-bound volume sitting on his knees. “The fucking idiot is out there drinking eight vodka shots in a row with no mixers. He’s going to kill me, and he won’t even do it on purpose!”

Charlton, to his credit, furrows his face in sympathy before asking: “Why do you put vodka in a mixer? Isn’t that the spinning thing with the blades?”

“No, that’s not what it – nevermind,” Eliot says, rolling his eyes halfway through the sentence and returning to the book.

As he begins to learns more about the Monster – its personality, origin, even feelings – some of Eliot’s theories start to make more sense. Reading about how the Monster sustains himself entirely with alcohol, Fruit Loops and Cheesy Puffs, Eliot realises why he sometimes finds himself peculiarly nauseous and hungry. When the cottage loses its roof and one of the windows gives out, the panicky writing in a new paperback informs him that the Monster is getting restless. When he finds himself completely debilitated for two days, yearning for his friends, he gets to read a fucking parable on the Monster’s loneliness. 

But then, weeks after committing to this method of research, Eliot says: “I think I know what could work.”

He’s sitting on the worn-down couch, legs propped up against a coffee table covered in books. Charlton, who’s by-now given up on maintaining his attention, stops playing with the misplaced fidget spinner he’s found, and raises his eyebrows. “Yes?”

Eliot springs up, ignoring the instant wave of blurriness that attacks his vision, and starts pacing across the room. He holds the book tight to his chest, drumming his fingers up the spine. “The Monster and I – we obviously feed off of each other’s emotions,” he says.

“How so?” Charlton asks, tentatively shuffling from his spot on the floor. The last time Eliot’s exclaimed about a possible  _ coup de Monstre _ , it ended with him throwing a book against the wall, and he’d better be safe than sorry.

“I mean, the books – everything in there is intertwined. I feel what if feels, I know when it’s tired, I can feel it misses Quentin,” Eliot says, but stops to compose himself once his voice veers towards a growl. “Point is, the last time I tricked the fucker, it was through my worst memory.”

“So… do you have more than one worst memory?” Charlton asks.

“That’s not what I mean –“

“Because I think that’s the point of  _ the _ worst memory. There can only be one.”

“Yes, thank you, I know,” Eliot says, diplomatically swallowing a sharper retort. “But I don’t think it has to be a memory, necessarily.”

All of a sudden, the ceiling above them starts shaking and one of the curtains drops to the ground, exposing the utter darkness outside the cottage. While Charlton gapes, Eliot studies the effects of the impromptu earthquake, and nods with controlled satisfaction: “And there’s our confirmation.”

“Hell of a fuck,” Charlton says, too fond of the word now that he’s almost learned to use it. “Can it hear us?”

Eliot idly plays with the scruff he’s been too preoccupied to imagine away, then feels the book grow heavier in his free hand. That would be a yes on Charlton’s question, he supposes, and opens it to a new page full of angry scribbles. He grins at the words –  _ RECKLESS _ _ , MEETSACK, SHUTup! _ – and can’t help the smirk spreading across his face. 

“Charlton, I’ll need you to focus. Operation incapacitate the Monster with my own emotions is a go,” Eliot says, elegantly putting the book back on its shelf. He rolls up his sleeves, dramatically tightens his tie, and heads towards the doorway. 

“What are you going to do?” Charlton scrambles up from the floor, decidedly alarmed.

“My worst  _ fear _ ,” Eliot says, rolling his eyes as if the answer should have been obvious. “I can show it my worst fear.”

“Okay. But –“

“See you in another life, brother,” Eliot says, with a significantly overstated Scottish accent. He imagines himself a veritable Desmond Hume, sailing across oceans, skies, and the entire space-time continuum to reunite with his beloved Penny. To shake off the unintended association, he quickly conjures up the image of Quentin, the astonished look on his face the last time they’ve seen each other. With that, he grabs the handle and steps through the door.

Charlton barely has time to process the reference, then finds himself standing in the cottage alone. “Oh –“

***

“—fuck,” Eliot says, the moment he falls out on the other side of the doorway and his head stops spinning. He blinks, stifles a heave, and momentarily wonders whether his worst fear is actually an acid trip.

He tries to make sense of his surroundings, but, at best, they resemble a shapeless jumble of places that he’s encountered in his life, and some he’s never seen before, all blended into a flickering, ever-shifting backdrop. There’s an item eerily similar to his former throne, which quickly morphs into the bed where he’d hide whenever he felt like sulking over the mosaic. Then both of them disappear in favour of an unfamiliar kitchen counter, and the scene briefly resembles a stylish penthouse. In the dizzying mess of colours and forms, Eliot turns his attention towards the only spot that seems to be a constant. His face falls immediately.

The scene unfolding before him is a not a memory, yet he feels like he’s lived it countless times in his imagination. There’s Quentin, and Alice, and the strange invisible barrier that keeps him apart from them, no matter how close he tries to get. They’re looking at each other, unaware of his presence, and he gulps when he gets close enough to see their expressions: Quentin’s trademark earnest smile and Alice’s shy uncertainty. 

“I thought I could never trust you again,” says the Quentin dummy, and the scene glitches from the strange penthouse to the library at Brakebills, then to throne room in Whitespire. “I didn’t want to.”

Eliot forces himself to watch as Alice takes a step towards Quentin, even though he suddenly finds the mixture of stone-wood-lino shifting under his feet much more interesting. He rolls his eyes and squares his shoulders. If it only takes another embarrassing iteration of this –

“And now?” Alice says cautiously, but her voice rises at the end of the question. Her right hand flexes, almost imperceptibly, and Eliot knows she’s keeping herself from reaching out. 

In fact, as he examines the display from a forced analytical distance, he knows exactly what Alice is feeling in that moment. From the thoughtful yet hopeful set of her lips, to the rigid line of her shoulders, and the frenzied thoughts that must be running through her head.  _ Choose me, choose me, choose me _ , he remembers the mantra, as if it was yesterday.  _ And then _ , he bites down on the bitter chuckle in his throat,  _ he did. And you said no. _

He knows that Alice will make no such mistake. When Quentin takes her hand, she squeezes it and doesn’t let go. 

“Very PG-13 for this sort of torture porn,” Eliot says, the sarcasm a little too genuine for his liking. “I hope you at least appreciate my commitment to realism, what with their complete lack of fashion sense.”

He imagines the Monster witnessing the scene – the voyeuristic little shit would certainly get a kick out of seeing how Alice and Q slowly drape itself around each other, kissing with heart-breaking desperation that almost tugs at Eliot’s own heart. They kiss in the very spot where Quentin told him that he’d like to marry Arielle, and they kiss in Eliot’s room at Brakebills, and then in the unrecognisable kitchen with too-grey lighting.

When they finally break apart, Quentin smiles, bashful: “I think I’d like to – try again.”

And just like that, they both disappear with an audible pop, and the only thing left keeping Eliot company is the flickering backdrop of random places and his familiar misery. 

“So, that would be a  _ no _ for the fear of rejection,” he says, matter of fact. He almost wishes the Monster would grace him with the sort of incorporeal laughter villains often affect in movies, but, alas, he’s only left with silence. Although this turn of events has slightly ebbed at the genius of his plan, he decides there’s not point in wallowing in self-embarrassment. He steps through the door again.

***

“Did it work?” Charlton asks, jumping up from his spot on the stairs. 

Eliot shoots him an unimpressed glare, and simply adjusts the collar of his shirt. “No matter,” he says, moreso to himself than Charlton. “Every masterpiece needs a rough draft.”

“I thought you could do it,” Charlton says, then points towards the mess that used to be the kitchen table. “It fell apart, just –  _ boom _ .” 

Eliot studies the splintered wood, noticing that the kitchen floor is also lined with a number of broken plates. He suppresses a triumphant air punch, instead tucking a strand of his increasingly unkempt hair behind his ear. 

“You best hold on to your socks,” he says in Charlton’s direction, not even stopping to look at the other man, and heads straight towards the door. 

***

Eliot falls into another rave-like medley of locations, something his imagination is obviously unwilling to skimp on. This time, however, he turns on his spot to find only one protagonist. The sight of her almost makes him smile.

“Oh, Bambi,” he says, sighing wistfully. “You could always rock a cape.”

Margo stands a few feet away from him, striking and radiant in the glorious technicolour of Eliot’s dreamscape. Although her conversation partner is invisible, she puts up her hand regally, and frowns at the empty space in front of her.

“I’m loving this guilt-trip, I really am,” she says, the clipped tone contradicting her benevolent smile. “But,  _ please _ , if you could kindly cut the cackle for a moment and let me finish.”

Obviously achieving her goal, she nods in satisfaction and whips the air with her cape. The lace eyepatch on her face disappears for a moment, leaving a gaping hole in its wake. Eliot barely supresses a horrified shudder.

“Nobody loves El as much as I do,  _ capisce _ ?” Margo says, pulling off sharp and threatening even with the one eye missing. It’s no wonder that the Fillorian bard who composed Margo’s coronation song decided to name it  _ The Piercing Eye.  _ Just how he’d managed to rip-off the melody to  _ Goldeneye _ , however, still remains a mystery.

“But Eliot’s gone,” Margo says, and Eliot doesn’t even have to look into her face to feel the punch. “That leech from the darkest timeline might bear some resemblance to him, but all you have to do is look at the hair. El would  _ never _ .”

“Touché,” Eliot says under his breath.

“And, besides, I  _ can’t _ help you,” Margo continues, flicking the cape again and turning on her heel. Eliot can almost hear the swish, the sound all too similar to that of an approaching blade. “I’m too busy to chase after another false glimmer of hope.” 

Promptly, Margo vanishes and leaves Eliot shaking his head. He fidgets with his tie a little, feeling like it’s choking him. “Okay, no, this  _ has  _ to be it.”

But nothing changes – no Monster suddenly emerges from its hiding, no magical door beckons Eliot to the other side, no fucking Patronus appears to break Eliot away from this fear. He shakes his head repeatedly, refusing to accept it. And, just like that, Margo pops back and the scene rewinds. She faces the invisible intruder, and the scene repeats – again and again. She’s too tired, she doesn’t even miss Eliot that much, she’s already found someone to take his place. With each new reason, Eliot feels himself closer to his breaking point. And yet, nothing changes.

“Well, fuck,” he says, pausing Margo mid-sentence to stop the following iteration. “The Monster aims straight for the jugular.”

He takes slow, purposeful steps back towards the glowing door. If he squints hard enough, the snarl on Margo’s face almost resembles a smile, and he stares at it to give himself strength. If losing her isn’t his worst fear, then there’s only one option left.

***

“At the very least, the walls should be fucking caving in,” Eliot says once he’s back at the cottage. Unfortunately, the room that greets him is entirely too neat, not even the bookshelves falling victim to his second worst nightmare. Charlton shrugs at him in sympathy.

“Are you running out of fears?” he asks, squeezing one of the kitchen table’s broken legs like a makeshift weapon.

_ As if _ , Eliot swallows, then gives the cottage another once-over. The kitchen counters remain spotless, the railing on the staircase only bears minimal signs of wear, and even the clocks, even though the time is different on each, are merrily ticking away.

“I was really hoping it wouldn’t come to this,” he says, sighing. He rubs at his forehead, feels a deep-seated headache setting in. He’s grown accustomed to the dizziness caused by the Monster’s inability to take care of his mortal frame, but this – well, whatever he’s doing must be working.

“Which should have been a sign –“

“That this is  _ the worst _ worst fear,” he cuts Charlton off, then turns to clasp the other man by his shoulder. “Look, I don’t know what’s going to happen.”

“It’s your  _ worst _ worst fear, surely you –“

“Not that,” Eliot says, shaking his head. “I don’t know what the fear is going to trigger. This place – you might not be here when I get back.”

Charlton gawks at him for a moment, mouth opening and closing like that of a fish out of water. Eliot can see the running commentary of his thoughts, the realisation, the doubts, the whole shebang. But then Charlton simply shrugs again and attempts a feeble smile: “Here I was hoping that you’re not coming back.”

Disgusted and moved by the sappiness of the moment, Eliot manages to give Charlton’s arm another, stronger, squeeze. Then he steps away and opens the door again, closing his eyes to steel himself for the fear that – just like his worst memory – he’s never been too willing to acknowledge.

Just before he disappears into the now-familiar whirlwind, he catches a last glimpse of Charlton, thumping the table leg in the air and shouting: “Fuck it up, for the both of us!”

***

Having come to expect at least some level of exposition in these bugaboo visions, Eliot almost yells when he steps into the last one. The moving tapestry - the Physical Kids’ Cottage, middle of the woods in Fillory, that goddamn penthouse - almost fades out, his focus immediately drawn to the figure lying on the floor. Its body is rigid, eyes wide open, hair sticking out in all directions, but, worst of all, there’s still that  _ smile  _ on its face. Quentin’s face.

“Don’t engage,” Eliot says, trying to calm down his racing heartbeat. He tries to separate himself from the image, taking a few tentative steps towards Quentin, reminding himself that it’s simply his nightmarish approximation. But this  _ is  _ Eliot’s fear, after all, and no number of rational thoughts can ease his growing nausea.

Before he has a chance to reach out towards Q’s lifeless body, the scene rapid-shifts into something else. Quentin’s standing again, thank god, shoulders squared and that determined set of his jaw. But then the Monster appears and his hands -  _ Eliot’s hands _ \- close down on Quentin’s throat and -- 

Another switch and Quentin’s running through a forest. It’s most likely Fillory, but he’s dressed in his stupid Earth clothes, with his stupid messenger bag slung across his shoulder, and a strangely elated expression on his stupid face. It only takes a second, and Quentin definitely doesn’t see the arrow coming, but --

Then they’re on some sort of a cliff, Quentin falling towards an exaggeratedly tempestuous sea. A nondescript street in New York, and Quentin stepping out onto the road, without looking to his right. That horrible night at Blackspire, and the Monster not wanting to see Quentin’s magic trick, instead throwing him against the nearest wall.

Props to Eliot’s imagination, the scenarios seem to be never-ending. Like a veritable rolodex of his worst nightmares, Quentin dies again and again, and even Margo gets her turn. After the last scene - where Quentin throws something into a magical mirror and ends up killing himself in the explosion - Eliot’s knees buck and his vision starts going black. He tries to get up, but something keeps pulling him to the ground, his limbs shake like he’s having some fucking withdrawal, and he can’t see a thing.

“Oh,” he hears suddenly, realising that everything has gone quiet. He blinks, his vision slowly clearing, and finds himself staring at --  _ himself _ ? His reflection cocks its head, neutral. Then it pauses, smiles, and the expression sends goosebumps down Eliot’s arms. 

“So, you’re him.” The Monster sighs, rolling its eyes. “How underwhelming. 

“You don’t look so fresh yourself,” Eliot says, trying to channel some courage into his words.

He’s surprised to realise they are at Blackspire, mere feet from where he’d first seen the Monster. It seems like a lifetime ago.  _ Does that mean it worked?  _ he wonders, idly, but the Monster laughs as if it can read his thoughts.

“Little Eliot,” it says, shaking its head. “Oh, how I can’t wait to be rid of this body.”

Eliot simply brushes off the dig and nods. “Yes, I truly can’t wait for you to give it back.”

“They fight so hard for you,” the Monster says, ignoring him. “I don’t get it. You’re so weak and funny with all your human feelings and cravings and  _ fears… _ ”

“But,” Eliot says, jumping on the chance to find out. “My fears got you trapped here, didn’t they?”

The Monster waves its hand in the air, unbothered. Its hair is much longer than Eliot’s ever let it grow, its nails are repulsive, the T-shirt it’s wearing is stained with grease and chocolate and blood.  _ Darkest timeline, indeed _ , Eliot thinks, realising the Monster looks eerily similar to the alternate universe self he’s often wondered about. One that stayed back in Indiana, finally rebelled against his parents at the ripe old age of thirty, and promptly moved out to stay in a motel room for months before getting hitched to an innocent girl from community college. 

“This won’t last, Little Eliot, you know that,” the Monster says, interrupting his train of thoughts. Eliot’s momentarily grateful. “I give it a day, at most. My powers don’t need too long to charge up.”

_ Fuck, this is happening _ , Eliot thinks, as another door materialises next to the Monster. It looks at it timidly, then sinks onto the stone ground of his former prison. It yawns and stretches its arms, the very image of a despotic puppy. 

“Go on, then,” it says, giving Eliot another ominous smile. He doesn’t have to be told twice.

The door glows a very faint golden colour, and Eliot’s glad to see it’s the same one as before - the wooden door of their cottage, with the creaking hinges and the dangerous splinters. It flies open the moment he touches it, and Eliot’s struck by the darkness inside, almost backtracking.  _ Is this a trap? _

“And please, cheer Quentin up before I get back,” the Monster drawls, watching Eliot’s hesitant moves. “He’s been getting a bit too depressed for my tastes lately.”

And, trap or not,  _ that  _ does it. Eliot inhales, steps forward, and prays to all the gods he doesn’t even believe in that the door will lead him back to --

***

Eliot wakes up with the worst headache of his - well, all several of his -  _ lives _ . It stabs at his brain, shoots phantom pains through his limbs, and everything seems to be making it worse: the strange smell of fabric conditioner, the rhythmic tapping, even the dim lighting of the room he’s in. He opens his eyes and yelps.

It’s the goddamned penthouse, loaded floor to ceiling with sleek art-deco furniture and grisly memories of his recently-lived fears. He’s sprawled over an uncomfortable sofa, covered up to his nose with a scratchy pink blanket. He flails on the spot, kicking the offending item off his body, and tries to fight off the nausea that spreads through him with every movement. Blanket disposed off, he sits up and turns towards the source of the insistent tapping. For a second, all the pain disappears.

Only the length of a glass coffee table away, Quentin’s perched in an armchair, drumming his fingers absentmindedly on a book. He’s got his knees tucked under himself in the way that’s so infuriatingly Quentin, and his hair, although shorter than Eliot remembers, seems to be tickling the tip of his nose. He looks tired, and smaller, and wound up with almost-visible tension but -- he’s  _ alive _ .

“Q?” Eliot says, barely getting the word out.

Quentin, not looking up from his book, hums a little. “Could you please give me a moment? I’m almost done with this.”

Eliot stands up, too wired up to care about the instant fatigue.  _ It worked _ , he thinks, stifling the maniacal giggles that threaten to escape his mouth. He takes a small step towards Quentin, but the other man flinches at the movement, putting the book away.

“Look, we agreed that we can go to Dunkin’ Donuts once I’m done --”

“Q, it’s me,” Eliot says, voice too-loud and words too-shaky. Each step feels like he’s walking across ice, and, God, Eliot really hopes being human is like riding a bicycle. “It’s me, Eliot.”

Quentin finally looks at Eliot, but it’s a look that he’s never wanted to see. Quentin winces, his eyebrows drawing in. He shakes his head a little, and smiles without the tiniest hint of mirth. “Why are you doing this?”

“Okay, let me just -” Eliot looks into the ground, glowering at it as he thinks. The silence stretches between them, taut and uncomfortable, until he swallows all the imaginary doubts and starts talking. “You snort in your sleep when you’re having a funny dream. You hate mushrooms, but you’ve forced yourself to like them because they’re Teddy’s favourite.” 

He avoids looking at Quentin’s face, but sees the twitch in his hands, hoping he can talk them both from shock through confusion to recognition. He thinks back to the time they’ve had together, picks at random memories, keeps talking as he remembers more of them: “You always started the mosaic off with green tiles, without realising, because they were your favourite.”

“I taught you to sew, but you’d always prick your fingers and turn useless for hours,” he says, unable and unwilling to mask the fondness in his voice. “You tried to teach me to fish, but you gave up after I almost drowned in that shallow duck pool. But you knew right away that --”

“-- you were doing it on purpose, to get me out of a sulk,” Quentin says, letting out a small breath. 

“Look, I know I was a coward, and that I lied to you,  _ and  _ that I lied to myself, but I’m --”

“El?” 

Quentin hugs him. Slowly, tentatively, arms hesitant and face unreadable. It’s almost heartbreaking, compared to the hugs he’s gotten used to from Q: big, boisterous, him throwing himself at Eliot as if he’d never entertain the thought of Eliot not catching him. Still, it’s the single best hug Eliot’s ever received. 

“I’m so sorry,” he mumbles into Quentin’s soft jumper. 

Quentin’s hand comes to rest at the nape of his neck and his head falls against Eliot’s eerily protruding collarbones. He doesn’t say anything, and neither does Eliot. Quentin’s scent seems to weaken his nausea, the methodical circles he rubs into Quentin’s back help to keep him grounded. Oh, how’d he used to scoff at other people’s displays of affection just to keep his heart guarded. Oh, how dreadfully wrong he was.

It takes moments, minutes, maybe a full hour, for them to come apart. Quentin jolts a bit when Eliot brushes a strand of hair from his face, but then catches himself and leans into the touch. He doesn’t stop clutching at Eliot’s shoulder, looking into and avoiding Eliot’s gaze in turn.

“Q, what in the fresh hell are you doing!?” 

Margo’s voice makes them both jump. She stands in the kitchen, holding an empty water glass, and if glares could cut, Quentin nor him would survive the encounter. Q, however, manages to recover his wits, and he looks at Margo with the most genuine smile Eliot’s seen on him since his underwhelming-but-ultimately-triumphant return. “It’s Eliot!”

“Uh-uh,” Margo says, and Eliot can see her skin turn white where she’s still squeezing the glass. “And I’m the effing Miss Fillory.” 

It takes a while to convince her to sit down, pry the glass from her deadly grip, and get her to look at Eliot with slightly less distrust. First, she threatens to smack them both with Quentin’s abandoned book, then she theatrically yells at herself to wake up, and even goes as far as to pinching her right thigh until she leaves a bloody mark.

“Bambi, honestly, just ask me a question. Something  _ it  _ wouldn’t know,” Eliot says, and Quentin nods to back him up. Margo scarcely looks convinced.

“Okay,” she says after a lengthy consideration. “What did you promise me, the first week after we met?”

Eliot smiles, shoulders relaxing. Too easy. “To never let you drink another Aunt Roberta, dance to a 90s medley, or fuck a white person with dreads.”

“Hm.” Margo nods, but she remains carefully neutral, contemplating her uncharacteristically chipped nail polish. “And did you keep that promise?”

“I tried!” Eliot laments, tired of the played-out argument even before it starts. “But you sneaked out with Sam when I was sick with the flu. What was I supposed to --”

And just like that, before Eliot has time to dive into the particulars of that episode, he’s got a handful of Margo muttering expletives into his neck.

“You absolute fucking ballsack, what the fuck did you think, fucking getting yourself possessed like a stupid Muggle,” she says, and Eliot melts under her tight squeeze; melts even further, catching Quentin’s amused smile, as he struggles to keep himself upright. “This rescue mission has taken years of my life, and I’m never getting them back, El!”

***

Once Margo calms down, he forces himself to lay out the facts: he’s sidelined the Monster through the power of emotions, successfully escaped a mind palace that got so boring it forced him to take up reading, and he only has about twenty hours of freedom left. 

“You mean that you just swapped places for - what - _ a day _ ?” Margo says, hiding the palpable disappointment under a heavy dose of outrage. 

“For now, yes,” Eliot says, grudgingly. “But I think I know what to do next.”

He sits them down on the sofa and plops himself in the middle, genuinely revelling in the discomfort of being sandwiched between the two people he cares about the most. He gives himself a second to enjoy it, then claps his hands to get back to business.

“So, I read some of the Monster’s thoughts,” he says, thinking about the disjointed, stylistically-challenged ramblings that he’d studied in the Happy Place. “And, yes, it wants to get back its sister, but there’s something else it wants even more.” 

It’s funny, he thinks, that the thing he and his captor both crave the most is this.  _ Humanity _ . 

He explains the nitty and gritty of the books, describes the uncomfortable loneliness he’s found in those pages, and - somehow - his friends jump on board. Quentin disappears to bring back books that could help with their plan, and he phones Julia, and she’s there in less than ten minutes and hugging Eliot with no hesitation. 

They all browse through the books, Q jots down notes, and Margo periodically curses this or that author’s flowery vocabulary. Eliot’s stomach starts growling at some point, and he suggests that they get pizza, but Margo intervenes before he can even consider the toppings: “No fucking way. This is your first meal in, what, half a year? We’re getting a proper takeaway feast for tonight. At least four courses.”

She leaves to call up a bunch of restaurants with her orders, and Julia whips up her own phone, expression guilty. “Guys, maybe we should call  _ her _ .”

“I don’t know, Juls, the last time I’ve seen her -”

“But she could help, Q. You know how smart she is!” Julia says, but she hesitates when she looks at Eliot. “Unless -”

“I see your point,” Eliot says, shrugging. Complicated feelings about Quentin and her last betrayal aside, he has to admit that Alice Quinn is, undoubtedly, one of the smartest people he knows. 

After Quentin relents, Julia follows in Margo’s footsteps. Suddenly, the innocent brush of Quentin’s knee against his own feels more significant. Before Eliot has a chance to backtrack, he opens his mouth.

“Look, I know now is not the right time, what with the eighteen or so hours I’ve got left here, but,” he says, wondering just  _ how  _ can he let spill the damn magnitude of his regret and longing that is brimming inside him. Whether he even should. “Could you promise me something?”

Quentin hesitates, eyebrows twitching, but ends up smirking. “I won’t run off with a dreaded white guy, El.”

Eliot chuckles despite himself. “Well, yeah, that’s good to know.”

“But also, please, promise me that you won’t give up,” he says, and he’s not even entirely sure of what he means. Give up on this thing between them that Eliot clings to with wildly hopeful expectations, give up on Eliot, give up on himself?

Regardless of the question, Quentin surprises him with a tiny but determined nod. He exhales nervously and squeezes Eliot’s hand. “Okay.”

Eliot strokes Quentin’s thumb with his own.  _ Good _ , he thinks. At least he’ll have  _ this  _ to hold onto and dissect and obsess over during the next instalment of his prisoner saga, while Charlton asks him mundane questions about life in the 21st century.  

Margo strolls back into the room with a lofty sigh: “Ember’s thinning beard, why does every single Japanese place insist on selling me fish?!”

“Ooh, I could go for some sushi,” Eliot says, his stomach giving another audible grumble.

“Too bad. I’m allergic,” Margo says, and perches herself on Eliot’s knees.

Soon, Julia returns, excited about some spell she and Alice have discussed over the phone. Alice herself rings the bell just as they’re all digging into spring onion blinis, the first course of Margo’s takeaway extravaganza. Eliot volunteers to make them coffee, and returns with a giant steaming pot that powers them up for the night. He sits himself between Quentin and Margo again, and jumps on every excuse to bump their knees or brush their shoulders with his own. 

By the early morning, Eliot can feel his vision getting cloudier, can imagine the Monster slowly waking up from its slumber and stretching out its greedy hands. But he ignores the telltale signs, focusing on the present. The girls are still up and chipper, trying to track down some illegal amplification spell. Quentin’s passed out next to him, snoring into Eliot’s shoulder. At one point in the night, he found enough courage to grab Q’s hand, and their fingers are still tangled together. He breathes and repeats to himself:  _ Everything will be okay.  _


End file.
